


Like Blood and Fire

by Lirazel



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-08-16
Updated: 2007-08-16
Packaged: 2017-10-05 01:52:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/36488
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lirazel/pseuds/Lirazel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>The one time Dean's not on watch, and all hell breaks loose.  </i></p><p>[pre-series]</p>
            </blockquote>





	Like Blood and Fire

In the end, it was an incredibly stupid thing to rebel about, and if it hadn’t been the end of an especially long week—Dad had gone right over the edge of an (_admittedly not-that-tall_) waterfall while struggling with an especially vindictive water spirit on Monday and Sam had nearly broken his bad wrist again while he and Dean were sparring on Thursday and on top of that they were holed up in an old hunting cabin in the middle of the Minnesota woods with no TV and the beer had run out two days ago—if it hadn’t been for all that, it probably never would have happened and then the next several years—really, the rest of their lives—would have been completely different.

But it had been a long, stressful week, and Dean was just so damn tired. So when the chance to blow up came, he took it. And regretted it for the rest of his life.

\--

It was going to be pretty routine—just a vengeful spirit haunting a daycare just over the South Dakota border; no violence yet, just scaring everyone half to death; nothing Dad really needed the help of even one of his sons with, much less both. But Dad decided to take Sam and leave Dean at the cabin to comb through newspapers and find their next case. Normally, Dean would have been pretty thrilled that Dad wanted some Sammy Bonding time and that Sam was willing to go along with it (_things had been tense between those two for the last several months, more tense than usual, and that was saying something_), but he was still a bit spooked after the whole waterfall incident (_Dad had stayed under for far longer than Dean had been comfortable with_) and they hadn’t stayed in one place for more than a week for the past nine months.

Besides, he’d had a bad feeling all week—that tingling along his spine that Sam teasingly called his “Spidey Sense”, the one that made him better at what he did than just about anyone else. And what he did was protect his family. And to do that, he needed to go on this trip.

\--

He brought it up Sunday morning at breakfast. Sam had already eaten and was out taking a walk (_Dean had always mocked him, telling him that walks were something girls and sissies went on, and so Sam had taken to calling it “stepping out to clear his head.” Yeah. Like that was much better_) and so it was just him and Dad sharing the tail end of a box of Cocoa Pebbles and a huge pot of coffee.

“Hey, Dad, I think I should go on this job with you and Sam.” He said it casually, testing the waters.

Dad didn’t even look up from the newspaper. “Not this one, Dean.”

Dean drained the bowl of the brown-stained milk. It was pretty sick, but Dad had taught him to do it when he was five; the Winchesters couldn’t afford to waste milk. Or anything else for that matter. Which reminded him. “Seriously, Dad, I think I should go with you and Sammy.”

He used the nickname on purpose, to let Dad know that this was Big Brother Dean talking and not Bored, Wants a Thrill Dean. The Winchesters had their own language, and while Dean was the only one who was fluent in both Dad Dialect and Sam Dialect, both Dad and Sam understood Dean Dialect pretty well.

“No, Dean,” Dad said, and that should have been that.

Dean knew finality when he heard it, and normally he would have dropped the issue immediately. Sam was the rebellious one, the one who fought for every inch. Dean was the one who said “Yessir” and did as he was told (_once, in the drunken we-just-sent-another-demon-back-to-hell celebration, Dad had told Dean that he would have made one hell of a Marine. Dean had laughed about that so hard that he fell out of his chair. And broke his collar bone. He was really drunk_).

But on the rare occasions when Dean disagreed with Dad or wanted something he figured his father would say no to, he had a very strict routine, a script he and Dad had just acted out. A casual suggestion. A no from Dad. A little bit stronger assertion. Dad either said no or relented. If the answer was yes, then it hadn’t been that big of a deal in the first place. If it was no, Dean never brought it up again.

He’d just gotten his second no. But for only the fourth time in his life, he didn’t let it go.

“Dad, I’ve got a really bad feeling lately. I think you should let me come along.”

Dad finally raised his eyes from the paper. “Dean, what did I just say to you?”

Dean stood and dropped the plastic bowl and spoon into the sink (_Winchesters couldn’t afford to throw them away_) and then shoved his hands in his pockets. This was about to blow up in his face, but it was too late to backpedal now (_the waterfall all over again_).

He resorted to the all-too-honest, make-him-uncomfortable-by-showing-Sammy-like-emotion tactic. “I’m really freaked out. Really.” Now for the attempt at humor. “When you come back, I’ll have probably torn the cabin apart worrying. And then when the owner visits next, he’ll know we were here and—“

“Son,” Dad said in his low, dangerous voice, and Dean swallowed. Nothing was scarier than Dad saying that word in that tone of voice. “You’re staying.”

“But Dad—“

Dad slammed his hand down on the table. “Damn it, Dean, I said we didn’t need you this time!”

\--

Silence. The sink dripped. The floors settled. A bird perched on the windowsill. The wind blew through the pines.

That was the one thing Dad never said to Dean. Every member of the family knew without anyone ever having said anything that that was the one thing Dean wouldn’t be able to stand to hear. Dad always phrased it differently: “Two are enough for this job” or “Three would be overkill.” He never implied that it was Dean himself who wasn’t needed.

Dad clearly realized what he’d said and his eyes softened a bit. But Dean could tell he wasn’t going to take it back. There were some things you just can’t take back. Not ever.

“Sam and I can take care of this.”

Dean’s fist met the wall and went straight through. He didn’t even feel the wood splintering and biting into his hand. “Fine. Fine. You don’t need me this time? Then you won’t mind me taking a break for a little while, will you?”

He never really unpacked his bag, so he stomped into his and Sam’s room and grabbed it off the floor, shoving the few things he’d taken out in and zipping it violently. When he came back into the kitchen, Dad was standing, staring, his expression unreadable.

Dean picked up a couple of knives off of the table, then grabbed a rifle that was leaned up against the wall. “See ya,” he said, and walked towards the door.

“Dean….”

That was all Dad said, but it wasn’t enough. Wasn’t nearly enough.

And Dean walked out the door.

\--

He stayed away for exactly sixty-seven hours.

He’d seen a much nicer cabin only a few miles away when they were driving in. As a rule, the Winchesters avoided the nice cabins because there was more to mess up and a greater likelihood that the owners would notice that someone had been there. But this time Dean just didn’t care.

The place had a TV. It was pretty well-stocked with Spam and beanie-weenies and beef jerky and beer and other essentials, too. He lounged around, staring morosely at the screen and drinking a lot. Until it finally got to be too much for him.

Sixty-seven hours. His pride would not let him do less, but his fear would not let him do more. It was unreasonable, he knew, to worry that something might happen to Sam while he was gone—Sam was practically a grown man (_though Dean, in his weaker moments, suspected that he would always see a little boy with big eyes and footie pajamas when he looked at his brother_); he’d been well-trained, and besides, Dad was there (_it wasn’t till five years later that he even thought to question his “Dad is invincible” mentality_). But logic wasn’t going to stop this gnawing in the pit of his stomach that tried to devour him every time he even _considered_ that he might lose Sam. After all, he was Dean; it was his job to worry about Sammy.

But even that fear was not as ridiculous as the fear that his family might discover that Dad was right: they didn’t need him at all.

He never admitted it, not even to himself, but that was the thing that drove him back home.

\--

That fear came back to mock him as soon as he stepped in the door. Actually, “mock” was a litotes (_that mean the opposite of hyperbole; Sammy had learned that word when he was eight and rubbed it in that Dean didn’t know what it meant and so of course Dean had never forgotten it_); it was more like a giant demonic clown began cackling hysterically in his face and taunting him with the worst scene he could imagine that didn’t involve blood and fire. That hidden fear was proved so wrong that if his heart hadn’t started slamming against his throat, he might have given a sick laugh as twisted as his hypothetical clown’s.

Dad and Sammy had had fights since Sam was six years old and decided he didn’t want to move from Sioux Falls, even though they’d been there two years, longer than they’d stayed in any place since Lawrence. The fights had escalated once Sam hit puberty—Dean would never forget the horrible day, one of the worst in his life, when Sam lashed out at Dad for refusing to talk about Mom. Most of the fights fizzled out quickly and within hours Sam and Dad were back to teasing each other quietly, even if there was a bite of frost to their words for a few days.

When the fights were bad, though, they were horrid. The room would explode with fury, and Dean was always half-surprised that nothing around them spontaneously combusted. Then slamming doors would end it all with too much finality, and neither Dad nor Sam would acknowledge each other for days, while Dean tried to fill the gaping silence with labored jokes and small peace offerings in the form of real spaghetti instead of their old friend Chef Boyardee (_the noodles were undercooked and the sauce was far too runny, but still, it was better than their usual fare_).

That silence and the way his father and brother’s gazes skittered away from each other ached more than the bruises and cuts in the aftermath of a job. As he got older, he would seek out trouble, take unnecessary risks, because the only thing that could shake Dad and Sam out of their grudges was the sight of blood.

Strangely, blood made things better, and Dean was more than willing to spill his own (_just enough to scare them, not enough to slow him down_) if it meant bridging the chasm that seemed to yawn a little wider each time the shouting started.

But as he stood in the doorway and let his duffle bag slide off his shoulder and fall to the ground with a clatter and a thump no one heard, he knew no amount of blood—or anything else—was going to fix this.

\--

“No, you know what? I am so sick of your excuses! If I have to hear one more lecture about getting revenge on The-Thing-That-Killed-Mom, I’m going to lose it!” Sam was red in the face, and for once didn’t look like an awkward lost puppy. He looked like a damn scary man, one who was clinging to control by a hair.

Or he would have looked scary if he wasn’t yelling at a man who was damn _terrifying. _Dad was tense from his toes to his fingers, but his voice was as quiet and controlled as Sam’s was desperate. “How _dare_ you speak about her like that—“

“I’m _not_ talking about her! Listen to yourself, Dad. You know this isn’t about Mom, and it hasn’t been for a long time. Mom’s gone. She’s gone to wherever it is the peaceful dead go. I, for one, think she’s happy and waiting patiently for us. Killing this thing isn’t going to bring her back or rest make her rest easier. I think she’d be disgusted at how you’re using her as an excuse to fuel your own—“

Dean flinched more than Sam did when the blow finally came. He half-suspected that Sam was so angry that he didn’t even feel it, but Dean certainly did, felt it more than he’d felt the werewolf claws that tore those scars in his back or the edges when the poltergeist dropped that huge glass chandelier on him. Dad had _never_ hit either one of his sons. Never. He’d sparred with them to keep them sharp (_and because no one else could; Dean had been able to beat up a full-grown man by the time he was thirteen, despite his size_); he’d slapped them on the backs —hard—and once he’d even flung Sam down a flight of stairs to save him from the wrath of an especially angry spirit. But he had never hit them.

But then, Sam had never used Mom as a weapon, either. Dean wasn’t sure which one hurt worse.

When Dad spoke into the silence, it was with the voice he used to address demons right before he sent them back to hell. “I ought to break you, boy, for saying that.”

Dad was ice; Sam was all fire. They didn’t equal each other out, either, making a comfortable room temperature; they created something else all together. Dean wasn’t sure what it was, but either way, it burnt. Like hell.

“Quit making this about her—she isn’t your shield—this isn’t about her!”

“No. It’s about your mouth, boy.”

“No! It’s about your hate being the only thing you’re living for. Love isn’t enough for you—Mom’s memory isn’t enough—Dean and I aren’t enough. You can’t ever kill that demon, you know why? Because then you won’t have anything else to live for.”

Dean was suffocating. All the oxygen was being crushed out of him. “Sammy…” he croaked. No one heard him.

“You really think this is what Mom would have wanted for us? You so eaten up with hate and turning us into good little soldiers? I may not have known her, but I _know_ she would have wanted more for us. Teach us to protect ourselves, sure. But you didn’t turn us into survivors, you turned us into warriors.”

Dad’s voice was so quiet and ice that Dean wasn’t sure he actually said it. “I kept you alive. That’s what she wanted. And don’t you dare pretend you know her better than I do.”

“A normal life. _That_’s what she would have wanted. And I’m taking that.”

“What the hell—“

Sam pulled a crumpled piece of paper out of his pocket, and Dean suddenly didn’t have a heart anymore. His blood wasn’t pumping through him; it was burnt to ice. He’d thought it was for kicks, just to see if he could get in, to have bragging rights for the rest of their lives. (_See? You may be older, but I’m smarter. The proof is in the letterhead, jerk._) He knew Sam had dreamed of Stanford since he was a little boy, but Sammy would _never_ leave him. Not ever.

Except that _he_, Dean, had left. And suddenly it all fell into place, and he understood. He left. He told Sam that that was okay, that anger was enough to rip them apart, that it was stronger than them.

Worse than that, he had shirked his duty. Dean had exactly two roles, and they were the only things in the world that mattered: protect Sammy and keep the family together. While he’d been away worrying about Sam running into a reaper or a skinwalker, the other thing he’d feared most in the world had happened.

\--

He hadn’t been here for one of the most important conversations his family was ever going to have. If he’d been here, things never would have gotten this out of hand. Dad and Sam would never have gotten so angry at each other that Sam would have to pull out the big guns: Mom. Stanford. A normal life. Dad would never have brought the demon into all this (_Dad still didn’t understand that it was _always_ a bad idea to bring the demon into any conversation with Sam_).

If he’d been here….

He saw now. Saw very clearly. That thing he’d been worrying about during every one of those sixty-seven hours…? Irrelevant.

They _did_ need him. Needed him desperately. Without Dean, there was no Winchester family. No family could bear up under Dad’s guilt and vengeance, under Sam’s rebellion and longing for a real life, not without Dean to absorb the sharp edges and sudden explosions of their tempers (_he was pretty sure that if you could see his soul, it would be bruised and battered and patched up_). Not without Dean to hold on so desperately and keep it all from falling apart.

Not without Dean to talk Sammy down, to teach his little brother how to handle Dad. Not without Dean to help Dad understand Sammy-speak and make him see that Sam wasn’t disrespectful, he just showed respect in a way a former Marine probably couldn’t understand. Not without Dean to need them both.

He saw that now, but it was too late.

\--

“What the hell is that?” Dad’s voice was quiet again and Dean caught his breath.

“I got accepted to Stanford. Stanford, Dad!” The puppy was back, so eager he would probably trip over his own paws. “I can major in pre-law and then if I can get into law school, I can become a lawyer and help people—“

“Lawyers don’t help people, Sam. _We_ help people. Lawyers just get rich off other people’s suffering.”

Sam didn’t even seem to hear him. “If we were a normal family, you’d be _excited_ for me. We’d all go out to dinner to celebrate and make toasts and laugh and stuff. And then when the dorms open next week, you and Dean would help me move in, and I’d have to throw you out to make you get back to real life and—“

“And in this hypothetical ‘normal life,’ how would we be paying for all of this?”

“We wouldn’t have to—I mean, we_ don’t _have to. I’ve got a _full ride_. They’re paying for my classes and room and board and my meals and my books—everything. And I can get an on-campus job—they’ve got tons of those—to pay for clothes and entertainment and stuff…”

As Sam rambled on, Dean realized for the first time how much thought Sam had put into this. He’d been planning this, for quite some time, apparently. He’d just been waiting for an excuse to reach out and grab it. And Dean had handed it to him.

\--

He felt as sick as he had when he came home to find the shtriga bending over Sammy’s sleeping body. It was exactly the same: he was going to lose his brother. And Dad and all the guns in the world couldn’t stop it this time. Sammy was going to walk out the door and Dad was going to tell him not to come back. Everything was going to hell.

_  
NO!_

“Sammy, you can’t go.” He barely choked out the words; he was surprised they could hear him over Sam’s diatribe. But two heads swung around and two pairs of eyes focused on him.

There was relief in Dad’s eyes (_Dean was probably the only person alive who could recognize it_). Dad thought he could fix this, that his oldest son could put all the pieces back together again, that Dean could make this all right. He was wrong. It was too late.

“Dean!” Sam’s voice held the same hope. Dean would make Dad understand—Dean _always_ made Dad understand. Dean could hear all that in just the way Sam said his name, and nothing hurt more than knowing he was about to let Sam down.

He still had to try, though. He was who he was. “Sam. You’re a smart guy. That little letter proves that. You know this will never work.” He put on his Reasonable Big Brother voice, half good-natured jibbing, half deadly earnestness. Sam’s face was falling right before his eyes. Dean wasn’t sure how he’d be able to live with himself after this. “We aren’t meant for a real life. Besides, we need you.”

Dean could never remember Sam’s voice being so bitter, not when he was addressing his brother. “Nobody needs me. Dad has _you_.”

_  
That _he hadn’t expected. Couldn’t Sam see? See that Dad fought harder for him than he ever would have for Dean? See the effort they all put into keeping him here, every single day?

“What are you smoking? Of course we need you. Who’s going to reach the really high stuff?” _Damn it, Sammy. I don’t know who I am without you._

“Sam, listen to your brother.”

“No! I _want_ this. You know how long I’ve wanted this, Dean.”

Dad looked betrayed. But did he seriously think Dean ever would have told him about Sammy’s secret ambition? It was Dean’s job to protect him from things like that. Protect all of them.

“You know what Mick Jagger says, bitch. ‘You can’t always get what you want.’”

It didn’t work. Sam’s face had gone from pouty puppy to determined. “Dean, you know I have to do this. I can’t live like this anymore. You _know_ that.”

This worst part of it was, he did.

“I’m going.”

Then came the words that tore every bit of Dean to shreds. “If you walk out that door,” Dad said, “don’t bother coming back.”

Sam held Dean’s eyes for a very long moment, and Dean had no idea what Sammy was seeing there. He could read his brother’s, though: _Please understand_. The worst part of it was, he did.

“Bye,” Sam said, finally, quieter than he’d said anything. “I love you both.”

Those were the words that let Dean know that he wasn’t coming back. Winchesters didn’t _say_ that they loved each other. They just leaped in front of bullets or between their family and a ravenous were-wolf or didn’t eat the last of the Lucky Charms.

That Sam was saying that now scared Dean to death. Last nail in the coffin.

And then the only sound was the tromping of Sam’s heavy boots as he walked towards the door. He paused as he passed Dean, meeting his eyes once again. Then with a jerk of a nod, he leaned down, grabbed two duffle bags off the floor, and walked out the door.

Dad’s eyes were closed. For a long moment he stood, weaving a bit on his feet. Then he stomped over to his bedroom, went inside, and slammed the door behind him.

\--

Dean stood in the middle of the kitchen, alone.

He had failed.


End file.
